


i'm back here again

by weatheredlaw



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Post-War, Anxiety, Asexual Character, Asexual Relationship, F/M, M/M, Mild Language, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Slow Build, Social Anxiety, Therapy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-16
Updated: 2015-03-16
Packaged: 2018-03-18 04:52:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,728
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3556718
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/weatheredlaw/pseuds/weatheredlaw
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Wash leans forward -- because this is the kind of story you lean forward to tell.</i>
</p><p> </p><p>or: Wash gets home from the war, grows some vegetables, meets a guy, and starts feeling better. A little bit at a time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	i'm back here again

**Author's Note:**

> I started this story a really long time ago, like sometime last year after I finished "[breath in](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2213385)", which is definitely a companion story to this one. It isn't totally necessary to read that one first, but it is some of my best work, and it does help provide a little bit of reference to some of the relationships happening in this story. Also, I love "breathe in", and writing it probably made me a better person. It's just one of my personal favorites in my writer's portfolio. Anyway, I hope you enjoy this one as well.

The first time Wash came back from Afghanistan, it was to bury his mother. 

When he'd left, she'd been sick. She wouldn't let him stay, wouldn't let him skip out. His old man had died in the Gulf War, and Wash wasn't terribly interested in following in those particular footsteps. But he likes to think all the promotions and the Purple Heart would have made the guy proud. Sure as hell made his mom cry a few times over those long distance Skype calls, her grainy profile looking thinner and thinner every week. The first time she missed one, Wash had to sweet talk his CO into letting him make a phone call. 

His aunt said things weren't looking good. A few weeks later, she was gone. 

The last time he came back, it was to live in their old house. 

She'd left it to him in her will. It wasn't much to write home about -- a little place with a couple of rooms, nice porch and a kitchen with good, bright windows. The backyard was green and empty when Wash moved in. A few weeks later, his therapist suggested he get a hobby. So Wash started growing things.

Wash is still growing things. 

 

 

 

"You know what? Eat shit and _die_ , asshole." 

Wash looks up from where he's setting out his crop at his booth. A woman with cropped red hair is talking to the manager of the farmer's market, her hands full of eggs, looking like she might start chewing through the shells. The guy is trying to act like he isn't freaked out, like this woman _doesn't_ scare the living fuck out of him. Wash knows that look. And he knows the guy isn't doing a good enough job of proving that to anyone. "Ma'am, I can't have you selling them at that price. It violates--"

" _Fine._ I'll up it by fifty cents. Are you happy?"

"Y-yes, ma'am. Th-thank you for your cooperation." The guy does his best _not_ to sprint in the opposite direction, but it's funny to watch either way. The woman catches Wash watching her and scowls. "Take a picture, buddy. It'll last longer."

Wash shakes his head. "Just admiring a decent altercation." He goes back to laying out his crop, arranging it in the kind of order his therapist says is a result of chaos. Eggplants, tomatoes, greens and corn -- a solid color pattern, a nearly printed sign. It takes Wash a minute to realize the woman is watching him. He looks up. "Can I help you?"

"When did you get back?" she asks quietly, her face completely different now. Her hands are lingering over the eggplant, seemingly admiring their firmness. Wash is good at growing things. He thinks his mother would have been proud. Prouder than the Purple Heart or the extra stars or the letter from the President. 

"'Bout a year ago." The woman nods, picking up an ear of corn. Wash puts the signs out.

"I'm Carolina," she says, finally extending her hand

"I'm Wash." She nods and goes back to her booth. She doesn't change the price on her eggs. 

The nice thing about the farmer's market is people don't ask too many questions. They come in with their co-op totes and their flannel and they don't ask where the food came from, usually. Sometimes someone haggles a price. Sometimes someone asks him where he's from, since he's kind of new to their scene. Usually, though, they leave him alone. He sits in a lawn chair with his book and his cashbox. Apparently he's supposed to have some kind of fancy-ass card reader for people to buy things with their Visas. Wash doesn't have that. He makes a CASH ONLY sign and doesn't really listen when the manager comes over to talk to him about iPad prices. 

Wash quickly realizes he isn't the only vet working the market. Carolina's got an on-again, off-again boyfriend named York who is out of control friendly. There are some twins they call the Dakotas selling pressed juices at their little purple stall at the end. A quiet couple of guys from either Florida or Wyoming -- maybe both -- apparently have an acre of pecan and apple trees in the fall, peaches in the summer. 

A few stalls down from Wash, there's a quiet guy named Maine. 

No one talks to Maine. Or really about Maine. He sells flowers. He works at a UPS store, apparently. He doesn't say anything to anyone. 

"Dunno," York says, when Wash asks how long he's been there. "I think he was already here, before any of the rest of us. This row was pretty empty last year, but we filled it up. The Dakotas throw a party every so often, but he never goes. South _swears_ she asks--"

"South?"

"Hippie parents," York explains. Wash shakes his head. "He doesn't seem _mean_ or anything. He's just...quiet. North says he once got him to tell him he was in Bosnia for a while? But he might be making that up."

Maine's a vet, like the rest of them. Wash sometimes watches him work, this over-sized dude with scars on his arm, dark, flyaway hair on his head, the kind that Wash knows grows out of a buzz cut. Sometimes he catches Wash staring, but neither of them really look away. It's like a two minute challenge -- who can get a customer with a question before the other one. After a while, it starts feeling like a conversation. 

Wash likes these talks with Maine. They make him feel like he's making friends.

 

 

 

The market is open Friday through Sunday, but on Thursday nights every so often, people bring animals and there's music and food. Wash has never been because he isn't allowed to sell that day because he hasn't bought a stall pass or something, but York sends him probably eighty-seven text messages about it that morning and Wash reluctantly brings a change of clothes to his job at the DMV. 

His boss Connie served a tour in Kuwait. She and Wash are the only vets who work there. She's the only one who understands that talking to people is hard and usually just has him processing paperwork. 

"Where're you headed?" she asks when he comes out of the bathroom shoving his work clothes into one the market's tote bags. 

"A hipster festival."

"Sounds fun."

"Wanna go?"

Connie shakes her head. "Me and my fiancé are going to a bar tonight to listen to some band play. It's gonna be terrible, but I told him he could pick. I'm kinda starting to regret that choice. You're not goin' alone are you?" Wash shakes his head. "Oh well good. Maybe next time, bud." She claps him hard on the shoulder and heads back to her desk. Wash would probably be able to take her a bit more seriously if half her head wasn't shaved, but it definitely helps when some of the assholes in line start giving them all hell. 

There are definitely more people than he's comfortable with at the market, but it's the kind of crowd he's been getting used to. His therapist has called his transition into civilian life smoother than others she's seen, and Wash jokes that it's because he was a terrible soldier, but that's what his therapist calls a defense mechanism. Wash usually pretends she's stopped talking around that point.

York and Carolina have a stall pass for the night, some of their chickens and chicks in cages. They're swamped when he finds them and the idea of interrupting Carolina in the middle of a business transaction makes Wash feel a little sympathy for the market's management staff. He looks over to where his usual stall is, finds some young couple making salads, and suddenly spots Maine. Their silent conversation tells Wash it's alright to approach him, so he does.

"Didn't know you were here Thursdays." Maine nods. He's constructing flower crowns, from the looks of it. Wash would laugh if he wasn't so good at it. He's selling them for the kids. 

It's actually pretty adorable. 

"You want some help?" Maine nods again and Wash comes around, watching Maine work with wire and ribbon and flowers until he can get the hang of it himself. They sit in silence, handing them off to little girls who come up with their five dollar bills in hand, standing on their tiptoes to get a better view. Wash hands over one made of daisies and the girl shrieks incomprehensibly until her father comes and picks her up, dropping a few bills into the tip jar. "You're good at this."

"Just flowers," Maine says. Wash nods and keeps working. It's a quiet, steady practice. Twisting flowers into something else. Wash wonders what Maine thinks when he's gardening. If it's anything for him like it is for Wash -- a chance for peace, to pull up life with his hands instead of the alternative. He wonders if Maine sees bouquets and crowns when he's picking out seeds. It's probably more than an hour spent doing this when Wash realizes York is watching them.

"Uh, what the hell is happening here?" Maine lifts one of the crowns as York gets body slammed by a six year old with a tiger's face painted on her cheeks and nose. Her mother hands over some cash and places the crown delicately on her head. When Wash looks over at Maine, he's smiling. The first smile Wash has ever seen from him. York is shaking with laughter, rubbing his hip. "Oh man. You guys are awesome. Wash, dude, you didn't even tell me you were _here._ "

"You were wrangling chickens," Wash explains. 

"Truth." Carolina comes over, sliding the cashbox into her tote. "Hey, we're gonna go get pulled pork sandwiches with the twins. Wanna come with?"

Wash nods and starts cleaning up his mess. "Got this," Maine says, taking the ribbon from him.

"I can help--"

"Got this," Maine repeats. It's a very final conversation, and Wash just nods, setting everything down.

"You wanna get sandwiches?" Maine shakes his head. "Okay. See you tomorrow, then."

"Tomorrow." Maine turns his back to them, effectively shutting down their line of communication. Wash tucks his hands in his back pockets and saunters along next to York and Carolina, who are bickering about whether to put the cashbox in the trunk of their car or not.

"No one's gonna rob a _Prius_ , C."

"God, would you get _off_ about the Prius? It's a fuel efficient economical vehicle."

"It looks like a rejected running shoe."

"I can't believe this is coming from the guy still driving a Geo for Christ's sake."

"That car is an heirloom and you--"

"Oh my _God_ will you two shut up?" South elbows her way between them, nosing into the tote bag. "Got it shut up tight, huh? Oh, hey, you brought one of the Tweedles with you. What's up short-stack?" Wash is at least a head taller than South, but whatever. She smacks him on the back. "Hey, _North!_ Get pickles!"

"Get your own fuckin' sandwich!" he shouts, already in line.

"Dickweed," she mutters. "Man we made _bank_ tonight. Rollin' in cash money. Hashtag _rich and famous_."

"You're using so many words I don't understand," York says, smiling. "Ah, youth culture. Wash, buddy, let's get some _ribs_." He pries himself from Carolina's arms and kisses her cheek. "Baby, I love your car. But not as much as I love you."

"Kiss ass," Carolina mutters, but she melts all the same. She follows South to the line to get a sandwich and while York and Wash grab some plates for ribs. 

"Glad you came," York says, grinning even wider that Wash thought was possible. "Seriously."

"My therapist is good at peer pressure," Wash says and York laughs. "Maybe I'll get a stall pass."

"You should, it's fun. We make more money usually than we do on Saturday and Saturday's a fucking _beast_ around here." York has his plate piled with meat and macaroni and potato salad. Wash gags a little looking at him. "Dude, you're underfed."

"I don't have much of an appetite."

York nods, piling a few more ribs onto his own plate. "I get that. Carolina picks at her plate for hours. Says it's hard. It'll get easier."

"It's been a year," Wash says quietly.

"Like I said. It's hard." He puts a gentle hand on Wash's shoulder. It should be off-putting, should make him feel crooked and weird and wrong -- but it doesn't. Wash relaxes. Adds some more macaroni and cheese to his plate. "But it'll get easier."

 

 

 

Some of Wash's favorite days of the year are government holidays. He sleeps in, rolls out of bed around nine, does some watering, and heads into town for an early lunch. The world is quiet, today. People at home or on vacation. Wash takes his truck downtown and parks it, feeds the meter for a few hours, and decides on coffee. He isn't picky about it -- they served swill when he was stationed overseas -- but he usually just goes to Starbucks.

His Starbucks is closed today. Wash stands in front of it, feeling a little lost, not quite sure where to go or what to do. It's never been closed before. He's never had this problem before. He thinks about what would happen if he went into full blown panic mode right here, right now, but he manages to catch his breath, turn, and walk down the sidewalk.

He stops outside Canyon Roasts, sees that it's open, and goes in.

There are two guys behind the counter bickering about what looks like a steamer. A taller guy -- and by taller, Wash means, like, Maine-sized -- is mopping, nodding when Wash comes in. The place is empty. 

"Dude, it's not broken. You're just obsessed."

"Tucker, I swear to _God_ if you've busted this thing I will shove my foot so far up your ass--"

"Excuse me." Wash leans against the counter and the two guys turn around. Neither looks especially embarrassed. "Uh, hi."

"Oh, good. Something for you to do."

Tucker tosses a handful of sugar packets at the shorter man's retreating back and turns to Wash. "Sorry about that. My _boss_ is an _asshole_."

" _You wanna get fired, Lavernius?_ "

Tucker sighs. "What can I make for you?"

"Uh, just the biggest size, guess a large. You got like a house roast or something?"

"Yep. That'll be two forty-nine. _Caboose._ Watch the bucket, man! We just cleaned it up."

"Sorry." Wash turns and sees the guy mopping up where some of the water has sloshed over onto the floor, making a bigger mess than before. He turns back and passes over a five.

"Here you go, dude. You-- Junior! Junior, buddy, don't do that, you can't--" Wash turns around again and sees a little kid pulling napkin after napkin out of the dispenser, trying to help Caboose clean up. Caboose is smiling, prying the soggy napkins from the kid's hands and putting them in the garbage. "Sorry, man." Tucker hands Wash his change. "Slow day." 

"No worries. Uh, thanks." 

"Yep. See ya around." Tucker turns to go into the back and keep snarking to his boss. Caboose cleans the floor. The kid goes back to his table and starts coloring, headphones covering his ears. Wash stands at the door and watches for a minute. Caboose looks up. 

They trade a silent conversation. Something Wash is getting good at. 

Caboose knows. Wash knows. They nod at one another as Wash heads out the door.

He starts going to Canyon Roasts a few times a week. It's usually a lot busier than it was the first time he went in, but the guys who work behind the counter recognize him, now, even after a few times. Tucker's the one who does most of the talking, and usually has his kid in with him. Caboose is quiet and adjusting. The place is run by a vet and staffed by vets and patroned by a lot of vets. When Wash is there, he sort of feels like he's at some kind of meeting no one called. 

"I mean I was just a field medic," one of the guys says, stirring honey into his tea. "I can't say much for what I saw."

"You told me once someone threw up in your mouth while you were resuscitating them," Tucker deadpans. 

They call the medic Doc, and he's in here every few days between his shifts at the clinic up the street. He's been trying to get into med school for months, but his master's in nursing seems to be doing him just fine. He's also very good at sharing. Wash isn't. He stays pretty quiet during these sort so talks. His therapist thinks it's cathartic. Wash is bitter about her being right, so he usually just shrugs. 

"Donut, your boss called and said your pansy-ass muffin break is over," Church says, coming around the corner outside his office. "Doc, stop grossing every one out."

"I'm not!" Doc whines, but gets up and follows Donut out the door anyway. 

"Oh." Church comes out into the room a little further. "You're here again." Wash nods. "Who are you?"

"Wash."

"That's a stupid name."

"You just ran off a Doc and a Donut. You hired a Caboose."

"What's it short for?"

Wash stands. "It's short for mind your own business."

" _Oh_. He got you, Church. He did." Tucker's laughing behind the counter, trading a high five with his son. 

Church rolls his eyes, but there's a smile tugging at his mouth and Wash sees it. Sees it right away. They stare each other down for just a minute longer before Church finally nods. "Yeah, alright. Just stay outta trouble around here."

Wash nods. "Will do, sir."

Church points. "You see? That's respect, Tucker. Learn it." He goes back into his office.

"Man," Tucker mutters. "You're makin' me look bad." 

"He doesn't have to try so hard," Caboose says quietly. He's been stealth cleaning, avoiding people all morning. It's the most Wash has ever heard him say. 

"You're mean," Tucker says plainly, and Wash grins at both of them before heading out. 

He tells his therapist he's widening his circle of friends, and she gives him the adult equivalent of a gold star on his chart.

 

 

 

Saturday morning, Wash is sitting behind his stall when he sees Caboose. Caboose with his arm around a very petite, very pretty girl, who is filling her tote with eggs from Carolina's stall. Caboose sees Wash, too, and he leans down and presses his mouth to the girl's ear and says something. 

" _You're_ Wash," she finally says when they get to his spot. "Caboose has told me a lot about you." Wash is a little surprised. He's heard Caboose say a grand total of twelve words, maybe, in the few weeks he's known him. "I'm Sheila."

"Good to meet you. Want some corn?" She laughs and nods, inspecting some and handing over the money. Wash makes her some change in his cash box and passes it back. "Good to meet you."

"And you," she says. She tugs on Caboose's sleeve, pulling him along. Caboose gives Wash a little wave and follows her, hands drifting to her hips as she pauses in front of Maine's flowers. He buys her a carnation. She puts a hand on his cheek. It's the most strangely intimate thing Wash has seen two people do in public, and he's definitely walked in on people fucking where they shouldn't. For the first time in a long time, he feels embarrassed, and he turns away, burying his nose in his book. Around twelve, he feels a very large shadow fall over him and he sees Maine standing there, looking amused. "Uh, hi."

"Hi."

"Are we done for the day?" Maine nods. "I got distracted." People didn't really bother him, either. They just shoved money into the oversized Mason jar that Maine had given him a few weeks ago. It's currently a little stuffed. Wash pulls it toward him and starts sorting it into his cash box. "What's up?"

"York wants to get beers." 

"I don't drink much," Wash admits. Maine shrugs and it takes Wash another few seconds for him to realize this is Maine asking him to go out with them -- _with him._ "Oh. Right." _There you go_ , Maine's expression says. Wash smiles. "Yeah, okay. I'll make sure you don't get mobbed by bar groupies." Maine rolls his eyes. "We can drink sodas and be sociable."

"Doubtful," Maine mutters. He goes back to his stall and starts cleaning up. Most of his flowers are gone, a typical occurrence for him on Saturdays. Wash only has a couple of eggplants to contend with and he manages to pawn those off on North, who is attempting to bring new and exciting vegetables into his life.

"Isn't it a fruit?" South asks.

North looks bereft. "I wish I knew what that meant anymore." He sighs and heads out to his car, eggplants in either hand. 

When Wash turns, Maine is standing awkwardly on the edge of the parking lot, a handful of roses in his arms. "Do you need a ride?" Wash asks. Maine nods. "Okay, lemme figure out where we're going. Truck's over there." He tosses him the keys and Maine takes off. "Hey, _York!_ "

" _What?_ "

"Where the fuck are we going?"

" _Elliot's!_ " Then: "Oh, shit! It worked?"

"What worked?"

York jogs up to him, signaling for Carolina to wait. "He asked you!"

"You mean Maine?" York nods. "Uh, yeah?"

"Awesome. So totally awesome." York claps him on the shoulder with his free hand. "It's gonna be a great night, man. A really great night." York doesn't say anything else, running after Carolina toward her car. Wash stands there for a moment, totally confused, wondering what even just happened. He'd probably be there all night if Maine didn't pull up in his truck, get out and press the keys into his hands. 

"Right. Driving." 

Maine's expression just says _get it together._

So Wash gets it together. 

Maine slides into the passenger seat and Wash gets in, shifting gears and turning out after York. He hasn't actually had anyone in this truck since he got it fixed up right after coming home. It was his mother's, like everything else he inherited when he came back. It feels a little weird, at first, because Maine doesn't say anything. But then, Maine doesn't say anything usually, so Wash settles down. He looks over only once, and Maine is watching him, kind of smiling, kind of thoughtful. "What is it?"

"Thanks for the ride."

Wash shrugs. "Any time." He fidgets with his seatbelt. "York told you to ask me?"

"Suggested." Maine's tone is amused and corrective all at once. 

"Right." Wash hadn't realized he was so hard to talk into going out. He sighs and follows York and Carolina downtown. It's crowded in the bar when they get inside, even though it's barely pushing nine. Wash sticks to following Maine through the throngs of people, not really sure when he became such a mess. He must look terrible, because Maine puts a hand on his shoulder and gestures toward the door, toward the exit, toward _freedom._

"No," Wash says. "I'll be fine." Maine doesn't look like he really believes him, but he doesn't push the issue either. They hook up with York, Carolina, and the twins near the back, where it's a little easier to breathe. Maine brings Wash a coke, himself a beer. "Thanks."

" _What?_ Wash, man." York looks crestfallen. Betrayed. Heartbroken. 

Wash flushes for the second time in one day. "I'm not a big drinker," he explains.

York nods. "I get that. That looks like one _frosty_ soda, my friend." He raises his glass. "Cheers."

Wash feels his tension melt away. He's leaning against Maine at the tiny table without much thought, only realizing it when he gets up to get another drink, to bring beers back for everyone else. His shoulder is cold, and he's tired, he realizes, but pleasantly so. Being here is like resting, Wash thinks. Like recovering. 

It's after midnight when everyone finally starts to calm down. York is completely blasted, but Carolina's sober. She gives the Dakotas a ride home and Wash tries not to sound weird about trying to figure out where Maine lives.

"I can walk," Maine says, but Wash feels like that's a stupid idea, and tells him as much. Maine sighs, somehow seeming more sober than Wash who has had _nothing_ to drink, compared to Maine's five beers. He's steady as a rock, and Wash is tempted to tell him as much. Instead, he turns on his tape player, one of his mother's old mixes playing. Maine looks at it curiously and Wash knows it's a relic even for them. 

"It was my mom's," he explains. Maine only nods, giving silent directions to his place. Wash realizes the reason he feels drunk is because he's tired, but he manages to make it to Maine's house in one piece. "I had fun," he says, instead of something like, _I have very weird feelings for you._ Judging from Maine's expression, he might be communicating this anyway. "I'll see you tomorrow?"

"Yes."

"Okay. Good." Maine nods and shuts the door, turning to go up the driveway and onto his porch. Wash shakes his head, leaning back and messing with the box of tapes under the passenger seat until he finds one of his mom's old Fleetwood Mac albums. He slides it in and backs out of the lot. He didn't lie when he said that to Maine. Didn't lie when he said to himself that he was growing some kind of confusing feelings for the guy either. Wash doesn't feel like he needs to lie, or exaggerate, or anything like that. Not to Maine. Maine would know.

Wash turns the volume on the stereo up and rolls the windows down. 

_The world keep on turning, I got to keep my feet on the ground._

 

 

 

The Mondays after a weekend at the market are always a kick in the head. Wash slides out of bed, gets showered and dressed, and eats a granola bar on his way in to work. These days, he tries to make a stop at Canyon Roasts, but it seems like they get busier every week, and Wash doesn't have the time or patience this early in the morning to be jostled in a line. Coffee usually goes with him. At lunch time he has tuna, because he believes in consistency. Connie thinks he might actually be a cat.

"You eat the same salad every day," he says when she teases him. "You eat more strawberries in a _week_ than I think it's physically okay for one person to consume."

"I love strawberries," she says solemnly. "My fiancé is allergic. So I eat them here."

"That poor man."

"I know. It's a tragedy." She snaps the lid back on her tupperware and plays with the tab on her soda can. "So what's up with you? How was your weekend?" Wash shrugs. "Aw, come on buddy. Don't hold out on me."

"It was good. Quiet. Spent time with some friends."

Connie smiles. "That's good."

Wash narrows his eyes. "You're in cahoots with my shrink aren't you?"

"Legally? I can't do that. Also I don't know who your shrink is, so. I'm just a concerned manager, looking out for her staff." 

"I don't believe you."

Connie laughs and shakes her head. "Do you act this paranoid all the time?"

"Yes."

"Okay, Wash." She stands and carefully touches his shoulder. "Get back to work."

After lunch, Wash head back to take over the camera. It's easy to take pictures of people, to snap a quick photo they won't hate, to be the person they'll blame for it until they get a new one. Wash doesn't know what people really _want_ anymore, what they're expecting out of life or pictures or _him._ He just does what he's been asked to do, only asks people to do one thing.

"Stand on the line, look up here at the red light. Don't blink. Three, two, one." The flash goes off, the picture goes on the card. Another person steps in front of his camera. "Stand on the line, look up--"

"Hi, Wash."

Wash never really talks to the people he's taking pictures of, but Caboose is standing in front of him and Wash blinks, trying to figure out what to say. "Uh. Hi." He clears his throat. "Look up here at the red light. Don't blink. Three, two, one." The camera flashes and Caboose's face shows up on his screen, flat and kind of goofy. Happy, if Wash is reading it right. Not really smiling. Caboose does as he's told and steps away, goes to wait for his license to come up. Wash watches him go from the corner of his eye, his girlfriend getting up from her spot in the waiting room, holding up his license to inspect it. 

Little things, Wash thinks. Little things.

 

 

 

"I don't _get_ her. Like, how are we supposed to do this together if she keeps _doing_ this?" Wash looks up from his eggplants and shrugs sympathetically in York's general direction. "I mean, I _love_ her. But she acts like we're fallin' apart."

"Maybe she thinks that," Wash tries this time, instead of _She'll come around_ , or _Don't worry._ York and Carolina are having fight number whichever, because Wash stopped keeping track a while ago. They're good together, but York is laid back in all the ways that Carolina is wound tight. She's constantly expecting the other shoe to drop and York's probably wearing Chocos. 

"That's fucked up," York mutters. "I fuckin' love her."

"You mentioned that." 

York shakes his head. "I'm sorry, Wash. This isn't your problem."

"You're right about that." Wash looks up. "But it's okay. You can talk if you need to."

"Nah, I shouldn't. I _should_ figure out where she took our freaking eggs." York pushes off his chair and heads back to the parking lot, waving as he goes. "See ya tomorrow, Wash." 

Wash doesn't know why people talk about their relationships with him. He's single, bisexual, and thinking about getting a cat. He doesn't have time for straight people and their committed bullshit. Tucker says he has resting bitchface, and when Wash had been confused, Church had explained that it kind of looked like he was always either going to hit someone or totally open for emotional spillage. Wash likes neither of these descriptions. And he's still thinking about getting a cat. 

Around closing time, Wash looks up and finds Maine lingering by his stall, looking a little sheepish. "Do you need a ride?" Wash asks, and Maine nods, shifting his basket of leftover flowers to his other hip. "It's cool. Lemme clean up and we'll go." 

Riding with Maine is cathartic, Wash comes to realize. He doesn't say a lot, and the things he does say are short, but important. Wash thinks Maine and Caboose would get alone well, if only because they're large and silent and sweet. Well, Wash _thinks_ Maine is sweet. He knows Caboose is, but there isn't much about Maine he really knows, apart from the fact that he's a war veteran who makes flower crowns for kids whenever the situations necessitates it. That's some serious skill and confidence. 

When they get to Maine's place, he unbuckles and reaches down in the floorboard to pick up his flowers, turns to Wash and says, "Wanna come in?" and then opens the door. Like that's how you _invite people in_ , or something. Wash blinks, hands probably gripping his steering wheel a little too tight. Either Maine doesn't notice, or he doesn't care. He just stands there with the door open, the cablight throwing awkward shadows across his face before Wash finally nods, letting go of the wheel before maybe rigor mortis sets in or something, and unbuckles. "Yeah. Yeah, sure." He fumbles with everything for a minute, trying to figure out what it means or how Maine means it or whatever--

"Got some peonies. You like peonies?"

"I don't...I don't know." Wash walks behind him up the steps to his porch. It's a wide-set veranda, wrapping all the way around the house from the looks of it. Maine is patient with him, pulling out the house key and shouldering open the door. He flips on a hall light and leads Wash into the kitchen, setting the basket down on the counter.

"Can't see much out there. But it's nice." 

"I bet." 

"Beer?"

"Nah, I'm good." Maine nods and gets one for himself, heading over to one of the backdoors and unlocking it, opening it up onto the garden. Even in the moonlight, Wash can see it's impressive. Rows of flowers, organized by a system that Wash can't really discern, labeled carefully. A shed in the corner probably has all the tools. There are a couple of baskets set out at the end of the different beds. It's impressive, categorical work, the kind you do when the rest of your lift doesn't make any sense. Wash gets it. It's exactly how he grows things in his own yard. "This is awesome."

"Thanks."

"You must have a dozen different things out here."

"Twenty-seven."

" _Fuck_ , seriously?" Maine nods. "I love it. This is incredible."

"It is," Maine agrees, though probably not for the same reasons. They go back inside and stand in the kitchen, talking quietly for a while as Maine finishes his beer, tosses the bottle in the trash. "Just wanted you to see them."

"I'm glad I did," Wash says, taking that as his cue to get going. He rummages in his jacket pocket for his truck keys, looking up at Maine when he finds them. He knows leaving is what he should do, what he's expected to do, but there's this look on Maine's face that says to Wash _maybe don't go, not right now_ , and Wash is okay with the way Maine leans into his space, breathes his air, touches his shoulder. "I..."

"Can we--"

There's a lot riding on those words, and both of them know it. Wash's eyes are open wide, in all the ways they can be, and his hand is gripping Maine's sleeve like he might be slung off the surface of the Earth. He breathes. 

"Yes."

 

 

 

Wash wakes up in someone else's bed, his clothes on, boots definitely off. He smells breakfast, and dog. Dog. He definitely smells a dog. Groaning, he opens his eyes, finds a dark nose right in front of his face, feels the hot breath of what is _definitely a dog_ right there. Next to his mouth. So that's good. 

"Ugh, what are you?" he mutters, sitting up and looking down. It's some kind of mutt, dark brown patches of fur covering its body. The collar says Champ. Wash sighs and scratches behind his ears. "Hi there." Champ whines and sets his chin on the edge of the bed, looking sad and needy until Wash somehow signals that jumping into the bed is exactly what needs to happen. " _Oof._ Dog, I don't think--"

A sharp whistle breaks up their little moment and Champ jumps off the bed, bounding across the room toward Maine. 

"Morning," Wash finally says, feeling only a little like a train wreck.

"Morning." Maine gives him smile, bending down to wallow with the dog. Wash just watches for a little while, before finally hauling himself out of bed, searching his pockets for his phone. He glances at the time -- six, meaning he's violating his biggest Sunday rule -- and sighs. "Breakfast?" Maine finally stands, pushing the dog down reluctantly.

"Yeah, definitely." 

The kitchen, in the light of the morning, has a lot more flowers in it than Wash remembers. It's nice, though. Makes the place smells good. Maine must be getting ready for the market. Wash should call and tell them he isn't setting up today, so someone can nab his stall. He texts one of the managers and looks around for coffee. Maine hands him a cup. "Thanks."

"Sugar?"

"Nah, this is good." He leans against the counter, watching Maine slide fried eggs from the skillet onto a couple of plates with some sausage and fruit. Wash's stomach whines at him. "You're amazing." Maine huffs a laugh and hands Wash a plate. "Um. Thanks."

"Stop saying that."

"Right, I know. I just--"

Maine cuts him off with a quick press of his lips. It catches Wash off-guard, for a minute, before he relaxes into it, almost losing his breakfast in the process. He leans back, the plate dangerously loose in his hand before Maine guides his arm closer to the counter and murmurs, "Eat." Wash blinks and nods, not sure where either of them just came from. 

After breakfast, Wash gives Maine a ride to the market, spending probably too long in the parking lot learning all the ways a person can be properly ravished in the cab of a truck. 

"You need a ride later?"

"Twins'll take me home."

Wash nods. "Okay. Let me know if it changes."

Maine smiles, grabbing his basket and stepping into the parking lot, hip-checking the door. Wash sits for a minute, running a finger over his bottom lip, still tasting breakfast and toothpaste and coffee. He breathes, turns on the radio, and pulls out of the lot. 

At the red light next to the market, Wash considers going home, and also getting a cat. Again. The cat thing he shouldn't be considering, but going home, for the first time, doesn't appeal to him. He takes a left instead of a right and heads toward Canyon Roasts, pulling into the lot behind the building. Two of the sandwich shop guys from next door are loitering outside, one of them smoking while the other one looks like he's being pinched. 

"You smell like _cancer._ "

"Cancer doesn't have a smell, Simmons."

"I'm trying to _help you._ "

"Yeah, well, from here it sounds like you're _smothering me._ " The smoking one watches Wash lock up his truck, nodding toward him. "You're the new Canyon groupie, right?"

"Um. No?"

"Whatever." He flicks the cigarette away and steps on it, whiping his hands on his apron and walking across the alley way toward the sandwich place. Simmons throws a quick _Sorry he's an asshole_ look toward Wash and follows him, still talking about cancer and the various smells it can have. Wash walks around toward the front and pushes the door open. The place is pretty empty, save for Doc and Junior, who are reading at their own tables while Caboose watches Tucker count quarters from the tip jar.

"Hey, Wash." Caboose waves. 

"He's back! Dude." Tucker leans forward on the counter and looks him up and down. "You look disheveled. Did you get laid?"

"Not really."

Tucker laughs. "Oh man, you got shafted."

"No, I definitely got what I wanted. I just didn't have sex." Caboose hands over a larger cup of Wash's usual and goes around the counter to sweep by the front. 

"Oh. Well, congratulations," Tucker says finally, scraping the change off the counter and dropping it back into the tip jar. He grins at Wash and goes to clean off some of the equipment. "Nice person?" Wash nods. "Lucky you."

Wash settles in, snagging the paper and sitting at the table with Doc. They talk for a bit about the best ways to sleep that won't mess with the leg spasms Wash sometimes has and Doc shares a few bites of his muffin. Junior appears silently at their table, offering them pages to color in with him. 

Church comes in a while later, stopping and looking around. "What the hell is happening here?"

"We're bonding," Doc says, not looking up from the fire engine he's carefully coloring in. "Where have you been?"

"The bank," Church mutters, pulling up a chair and tugging at his tie. "Can I have one?" he asks Junior. Junior grins and pushes one toward him. 

For a while that's just what it is -- a few grown men and a ten year old, coloring fire engines and tractors, a monster here and there, sipping on coffee and occasionally griping about how _someone_ is hogging the red. 

Wash leaves feeling like he's made some kind of breakthrough, and imagines his shrink would be proud.

 

 

 

Over the course of the next few weeks, Wash and Maine spend a lot of time at each other's houses, doing a lot of making out, and watching a lot of the Netflix queue Wash has had lined up for _months._ They don't push each other for much, just give and take exactly what they know they can give and take -- often while eating spinach dip. Maine learns about the coffee shop and Wash learns about the way the market used to be, before he got there. 

It's almost a month before Maine pushes silently for a little more. Wash nervously hits the breaks, which sort of looks like him jerking away from where Maine's put a hand between his legs like he's lit a fucking _match_ instead of casually ground his palm against his thigh. 

"Um."

"We don't have to."

"Well. It's not...okay. I mean not, like, okay let's do it. Okay, like, okay. I need to...tell you something." Maine leans back, giving Wash a look that says he's listening, but _someone_ isn't making any sense. Which, of course, if he could be in Wash's shoes, like right now, he'd know exactly why none of this made sense.

Mostly because it's been literal _years_ since Wash has had to have this conversation with someone.

"I don't...do that. I don't have sex." Maine blinks, tipping his head to the side and reminding Wash of the cat he doesn't own but probably soon since his sort of boyfriend probably won't be his sort of boyfriend anymore. "Sorry--"

"Don't be sorry." Maine folds his long legs under him on the couch and reaches out, pulling Wash's hands closer to him. "I don't really want to." 

"Oh. But you--"

"I thought--"

"Right. Because--"

"Yeah, you know--"

Wash grins and leans forward, tugging Maine in as close as he can and kissing him. He exhales, shaky and coming down from a cliff of sheer _terror_ because telling people is always hard. It's _always_ hard. "Thank you," he murmurs.

Maine pushes his fingers through Wash's hair, which is about the most erotic thing Wash has experienced. "You're welcome."

 

 

 

"You're _dating_ Maine!"

" _Shh!_ " Wash looks around because York's voice sounds like a fucking _dog whistle_. 

"Sorry, I just--"

"Who's dating Maine?" South comes over, tossing York a bottle of juice after he hands over some cash. "It's you, isn't it?" She jerks her chin toward Wash, grinning. "Nice."

Wash sighs, leaning back in his chair, scrubbing a hand over his face. Maine had gone to the bathroom and York had practically climbed into Wash's lap because he's an atrocious gossip monger who couldn't keep a secret if you paid him. Carolina rolls her eyes at them, coming over and folding her arms over her chest. "Leave him _alone,_ York."

"I'm just expressing to my good friend here how _happy_ I am for him. This is a big deal. Our little family is knitting together, it's so nice." He threads his fingers tight and sighs, smiling. "I could cry."

"Don't," Wash mutters. "Please." South laughs and heads back to her stall, clearly telling her brother because he whoops in their direction and gives Wash an enthusiastic pair of thumbs up.

Carolina pulls on York's collar. "Come on, dummy. We're going to be busy soon." 

Wash watches York follow after her, shaking his head and leaning forward to adjust a zucchini that's been pushed out of place. When he leans back, Maine is behind his chair, a bottle of water in his hand, dangling it over Wash's head. "Thanks." 

"York knows?"

"Yeah, and so does every dog in the county, too." Maine laughs, dragging his fingers through Wash's hair before going back to his booth. Wash watches him go, unable to stop the smile that spreads over his face.

 

 

 

"So. It's been a while, Wash." His therapist leans back in her chair, pushing her glasses up her nose. Wash feels more comfortable here today than he has in a while. Wash's heart feels like its bursting, but with what, he isn't quite sure. He feels like he could tell her everything, and if she asks him, he will. 

Probably not in order, though. He might start with Caboose first. The coffee shop guys. He'd tell her about their weird rivalry with Grif and Simmons over the garbage cans out back, and about Junior and his propensity for sharing his coloring books. He'd tell her about Doc, who is only kind of a doctor, but no one asks questions about.

He might tell her about York and Carolina next. The twins after that. About how growing things has helped more than he thought it would or could. He'd tell her about the flowers he's added, and he'd tell her about the paint colors he's picked out for his kitchen -- his mother always like the green, but its his house, now, and Wash wants white, with maybe a bit of blue and yellow. He'd tell her about how he sold the last of his mother's clothes and furniture just last week, and that he's going out to buy photo albums to finish the project she just never had time to start.

And then he'd tell her about Maine. Maybe not the whole story, because it's a pretty damn good story, in Wash's opinion, and it takes time to tell. He'd tell her just a little bit. That he's met someone, a person who gets him, who doesn't push where he shouldn't and doesn't ask for things Wash can't give him. That they work well together, and know when the other one needs their time apart.

"Tell me what's been happening," she says. 

Wash leans forward -- because this is the kind of story you lean forward to tell -- and smiles. It catches her off guard, and she smiles back. 

"Okay," he says. "I can do that."

**Author's Note:**

> I recommend you listen to "Low East" by Handsome Ghost on repeat while reading this. Or just once, it doesn't matter. But I do recommend you listen to that song.


End file.
